


for you, for you

by flakyfreak



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mild Language, Panic Attacks, The Night At Crowley's Flat (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-29
Updated: 2020-11-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:01:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27785650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flakyfreak/pseuds/flakyfreak
Summary: 'His chest hurt, and all at once he resigned.With the coldness and exhaustion and worry still lingering like stone under his skin, he met Crowley’s bare gaze and let the tears trickle down his face.“I love you.”'Another classic take on the missing scene about that night at Crowley's flat. Nothing new, but oh so soft.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 119





	for you, for you

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, so this is my first time posting a fic on ao3, first time writing in ages, and first time writing for this ship. I came out to my mom recently, and the fallout has prevented me from staying on top of schoolwork. Once I started writing this, I couldn't stop. I felt more engaged and focused and excited than I have in days. I hope this fic brings you some of that joy. 
> 
> Oh! and please tell me what you think. a lil comment. just a bit of one. ;)

It was only when the door to Crowley’s flat had swung back into its frame behind him that Aziraphale’s brain caught up. 

The bus ride back from Tadfield had been typical. Typical in the way, in a commitment to civic duty, he had suffered through many a bus ride since the popularization of public transport. Thus, the bumps of the large vehicle jostled but didn’t surprise, and the grime of the seats discomfited but didn’t disgust, and it was all extraordinarily typical. The blurred tableau of tree greens, asphalt grays, and lamplight yellows flitted by through the fingerprint-opaque window next to Crowley. The bus ride was typical even in the way that Crowley was present, as many a clandestine rendezvous had occurred in recent years on London's lines, hushed voices tossed over shoulders, eyes forward. 

It was the more atypical details that had disoriented him. Aziraphale’s mind felt like a balloon someone had inflated with helium and neglected to hold onto, forgotten even as it drifted higher into the sky. It was in the way Crowley sprawled in the seat next to him instead of behind him so that each time the bus jostled, their shoulders bumped. It was in the way no classified information was cautiously shared. And it was especially in the way that Crowley’s pinky and ring finger had whispered across the back of his hand, and Aziraphale, helpless to it all, turned his wrist so that his companions' fingers could drift across his palm and settle between his own. The past eleven years had been spent anticipating the failure of the Apocalypse. Their six thousand year old relationship (reluctant acquaintanceship turned reluctant Arrangement turned reluctant godfatherdom) now included a rebellion against all holy and unholy forces. And then, Crowley's hand in his. That the past 75 some-odd years of his love shimmering just underneath his skin had finally culminated into a quiet gesture on a completely atypical, typical bus ride had Aziraphale wondering faintly if he was in some sort of shock. 

He knew how the typical bus-riding experience felt, and he had certainly imagined how a reality in which Crowley took his hand might’ve felt: it was a fantasy that included anything from soft kisses to spontaneous discorporation, depending on the day. Yet the reality was this: Aziraphale only had the capacity to slump down, lay his head against Crowley’s bony right shoulder, and exhale shakily. 

Now they were back at Crowley’s flat. Not a wholly unfamiliar environment to Aziraphale, but a lingering scent of melted demon stood out.

Crowley immediately began puttering a bit manically around the room, hastily snatching at the— what looked to be pages of a book. Aziraphale caught a glimpse of a mosaic of— stars— ah. He inhaled sharply for what felt like the first time since sunset. 

Speaking even as he was processing, “The smell- That is to say- well—” There wasn’t really a polite way to ask if Crowley had exorcised a demon in his flat recently (they had been separated for much of the afternoon, between Crowley lashing out at the bandstand and Crowley pleading on the sidewalk and Crowley piss drunk and grieving at the pub), but Crowley’s attention slid to him at his attempted inquiry. He was still clutching crumpled star portraits in his hand. 

“nnn, yeah. Well, that’s why I asked, ya know… what it was for…” It seemed the softness Crowley had blessed him with on the bench before the bus wasn't an isolated phenomenon. The demon looked away, mouth puckering in discomfort.

For all that he was slow, the angel was not stupid. 

_(“How can somebody as clever as you be so stupid?”)_

The holy water. Crowley must’ve killed.. with.. 

It seemed that while his brain was online, the numbness remained. Where he would typically feel rather… well, rather a lot of things at this new information, he only felt cold. His heart thudded dully in his chest. This was surprising; this felt past himself. The whole day felt past himself, and he quite wondered how much further he could go.

“Oh. I see.” His thoughts blurred like the bus window tableau. “I suppose it would be best if I were in charge of clean-up, then.” He moved towards the pungent scent—and oh, there was the puddle and a bucket, Crowley must’ve—

Suddenly his breath was coming quicker. Not unacquainted with the workings of his corporation, he recognized this as yet another effect of his receding shock. He stepped through the sodden threshold and widened the door to evaluate the mess. 

He could miracle the liquid away but the _smell._ It was so much stronger in here. He had to find a way to dispel the odor. He stepped further in, inching along the wall to avoid getting anything on his shoes. 

The volume of the silence in the room assaulted his ears. With each pulse of blood in his temples, it grew steadily louder. In another way, it felt like a train was barreling towards him from far away but he couldn’t move away from the tracks. 

The noise of Crowley moving through the flat trickled in through the open doorway.

The silence grew louder. The train raced closer.

The knowledge of his bookshop’s fate sat heavily on his chest. Crowley stopped time today— for him? The sensation of Crowley’s fingers bumping his on a completely atypical bus ride blossomed phantom fire in his left hand. 

He glanced around for some absorbent material, and his gaze caught on the plant mister.

**_The smell_ ** … A thought sprouted in his head. Crowley was— Crowley had to use— water is prone to splash, holy or not, and if one drop had all but _touched_ him—

Trembling, he was trembling now.

(In a different world, he could’ve walked through that door and breathed in the air that reeked of _Crowley’s_ demise, could’ve pulled it through his nose, God it would have been in his _lungs_. The idea socked him in the gut far harder than Sandalphon had.)

It was panic, Aziraphale recognized. He was having a panic attack. _Not now, not now._ They had a prophecy to figure out, an unacknowledged hand-holding Moment to ignore, and for the love of it all, _he had to get rid of the_ _godforsaken smell-_

He had to

Suddenly, he was crouching on the ground, fumbling aggressively at his bowtie, to release some sort of pressure— no better--

\--reprioritize--

\--moving his hands to his hair, he pulled desperately at it, any sensation to counter--

he began heaving, gulping breaths, shivering--

a thought was spared for being quieter

_(don’t let Crowley hear, he’ll want to fix it)_

his eyes were clenched shut so hard that his brow was beginning to ache, he couldn’t—

It would have been so incontrovertible if _any_ of what was smeared across the floor had come into contact with Crowley. He would’ve been gone. Just gone. Aziraphale _tried_ , he tried so hard, to care in the right way— 

had never opened his goddamned mouth, was always too pragmatic, too safe, too scared— 

(Crowley would have never known what Aziraphale had meant in the Bentley, what he had meant by every single barb and subtle admonishment, by every single petty request, by every single rejection)

He pulled on his hair harder, curled into himself tighter--

Like it or not, that was how Crowley found him moments later. 

“Fuck, angel—” 

Aziraphale clambered to shout at him not to get near the holy puddle, but his body could only tense more. He actually started sobbing. 

“Hey, hey, what is it? Are you—” Crowley’s voice was suddenly at his side, and the sound of his dragged, wet inhales separated them for only a moment before he felt his demon’s arm land across his shoulders. Aziraphale folded into him, knees collapsing on top of Crowley’s thighs, his cheek pressed against Crowley’s neck. He shoved his face into the warm place there, weeping on the skin above his collar. 

_(This isn’t allowed—_

_Our own side—_

_God, would he never be free and unafraid?_ )

The demon was muttering things as his hand slowly began a calming circuit on the angel’s back. “Hey, shh, hey, this isn’t— it’s all okay now, right? The world is still here, we’re both still here, I was just putting the kettle on so you can have your blasted tea…” It was evident from Crowley’s shaky, nervous, soft, blessed voice that he was doing his best to keep the angel from shaking apart in his lap. Aziraphale could do nothing but focus on the warm skin on his face and the pounding of his corporation’s stupid chest organ. 

A moment of sanity filtered through, and he used it to clutch at Crowley’s clothing, to slump further into his embrace. He could do nothing else as the train of his panic whipped by him. The volume of it all began to decrease, and Crowley continued to speak.

“It’s all okay, we’re gonna figure this out, I’m here, we’re here...”

Suddenly, panting against Crowley’s neck, fingers cramping from his tight grip, he felt tired. The disorientation and lack of control began to abate. His lips still felt numb and cold, but his brain began to move again, albeit at a glacial pace. A pressure to explain himself, to minimize his breakdown and reestablish normalcy swelled, so he shifted a bit away from the demon and leaned himself haphazardly against the nearby wall. 

His chest hurt, and all at once he resigned.

With the coldness and exhaustion and worry still lingering like stone under his skin, he met Crowley’s bare gaze and let the tears trickle down his face. 

“I love you.”

Crowley's lips parted, and he was _lost_.

“I love you so much. It has- has always pooled in the soles of my shoes, always shot through to the tips of my very wings, and I have always, _always_ ” -- his voice broke-- “hurt you because of it” -- a pause and a hiccup-- “you always _always_ save me and even if you hated me and _I_ hated me, at least we were _safe_ , even if it was a secret from each other, it was still alive as long as we were still alive.” 

Crowley slumped back onto his ass on the linoleum like he had been pushed. “Angel, you can’t just—”

Aziraphale interrupted him, “Can we, can we—” a deep breath. “Can you show me to your bed? I want to lie down.” 

His companion slowly nodded, stood with visible effort, and held his hand out. Aziraphale took it, warily trusting his legs to carry him. 

Crowley did a little hop over the mess at the threshold, and led him to a room down the hall that contained a large mahogany bed with silky black sheets and velvety black blankets. It was a completely unsurprising aesthetic, and Aziraphale couldn’t spare a thought for it.

The angel shuffled off his loafers and shed his jacket and waistcoat, yanked his dress shirt over his head, and all but fell into the bed wearing his trousers and a soft undershirt. He wasn’t one for sleeping, but comfort? He was well-acquainted with that indulgence. Once settled, he focused on taking one simple, steady breath at a time. Crowley was standing, standing quite still, eyes fixed unseeing on something on the opposite side of the room. Sensing the angel’s gaze, he glanced over. No words were spoken, but the demon shed his outer layers and gingerly slid under the covers, coming to a rest facing Aziraphale, both of them laying on their sides. 

He gingerly grabbed Crowley’s hand to fiddle with his fingers. It made this-- trying to sort out how to say everything that had finally, _finally_ , settled inside of him after the whirlwind of the Almost End and after years of juggling it all-- easier. He did know where to begin, though.

“I’ve mistreated you quite terribly, haven’t I?” Aziraphale whispered across the tiny gulf between them. Neither of them were looking at the other. It was a vague approach to an unspoken iniquity, and he had no idea how the man across from him would respond.

Crowley whispered back, “It’s… it’s possible. Maybe.” 

When Aziraphale braved looking up at him, the demon was biting the inside of his cheek, and his eyes were scrunched together, obviously holding himself back. It hurt to see Crowley so visibly upset, but he had to say his piece for the both of their sakes. 

“I’m sorry it took until circumstances such as these for me to choose our side. I am not sorry for wanting to protect us, to protect you, dearest, but I,” he had to blink rapidly. Crowley had finally opened his eyes to meet his, and they shone with tears. Aziraphale continued in a crumbling voice, “I understand that just because there were no right choices doesn’t mean I am absolved from having made the wrong ones.” The words were yanked from a place deep in his soul, a festering place that held rotted truth, that was seeing light for the first time since the Beginning. It was time. For all of his love, he had to do this part right, even if it did shred him. He had realized a great many things too late, and he was tired of trying to accomplish 'good' by acting evil. “I don’t expect anything from you.” Here, Aziraphale paused to grip the demon’s clammy hand tightly in both of his. It gave him strength enough to finish with an oath. “I have loved you for centuries in a safe way, but I will love you and love you and love you until I can love you better, until I am capable of loving you recklessly and wildly and best.” 

Crowley shuddered violently and sniffed, tears traveling sideways over the ridge of his nose and down his cheekbone towards a darkening spot on his charcoal pillowcase. He looked fragile, but he kept his eyes locked on Aziraphale, and he was beautiful and courageous and vulnerable. It made the angel feel profoundly unworthy, to be gazed upon with such openness.

The demon’s attention turned to where he took his own turn fidgeting with Aziraphale’s fingers, and it remained there for a long while. Nothing in Heaven or Earth felt more like God’s grace to Aziraphale than Crowley’s inattentive focus on their clasped hands. It was quiet, except for the muffled sounds of London’s continued existence leaking through the window on the opposite wall. 

“I had a moment like that earlier today, too.” The voice that Aziraphale had spent decades, centuries, millennia rejoicing in was barely audible.

“When I came to your bookshop, and I couldn’t… feel you. It was so _hot_ , Aziraphale. It was— it was honestly like Falling all over again,” Crowley gave a stunted, bitter chuckle. The heart in Aziraphale’s chest quivered, thanking God, the stars, all of Creation that the demon maneuvered ever closer to him until they were almost nose to nose, eye to eye. “I think… I think that I knew, angel. I wish I could say that it made it hurt less, but everything you’ve told me tonight-” he blinked more tears away and continued in a sob. “Somewhere down inside of me, I think that I knew. Our relationship has always felt like, like I was hanging off the edge of a cliff, trying to keep my grip on a slippery ledge. Sometimes I was barely hanging on, swinging by my fingertips, I was.” They both held each other’s hand a bit tighter. “Felt like I finally lost my grip today when I went into your shop and couldn’t feel you.” The breath of these words swept gently across Aziraphale’s face, and he ached, oh how he _ached violently_ with the weight of it all. After a millennia of obfuscating and shielding all of the soft parts of themselves, to finally lay it all bare was overwhelming. They may as well have been shouting. 

Crowley chewed his cheek again, pulling himself away from unravelling, before he continued with a surer voice, “I think the thing about how we’ve always done this- us- is that we were never able to reassure each other, y’know?” A hesitance he had only ever seen in him at the bandstand flickered across his expression. “I mean, I could see. I could see what you were doing, and even though I hated it, hated it to the point of denial, I knew _why_.”

They knew each other, and so it came as less of a surprise to Aziraphale that his motives for repeatedly pushing Crowley away were quite transparent and more as a disappointing reminder that they have always been two halves of a whole. After so many years of incidental meetings and feeling each other out around the hard boundaries separating them, it wasn’t so difficult to read between the lines.

“I let you do all of that to me, Aziraphale. Even when it was fucking agony, loving you has always felt...” A hush, as Crowley moved forward to press every plane on the front of his body against every corresponding plane of the angel’s, his chin tucking over his shoulder. “...loving you feels more holy and more damning and more right than anything else ever has in my entire existence.”

Aziraphale returned the embrace with no less fervor than if God herself had commanded him to do so. 

  
They lay like that for a while before Crowley rolled onto his back, and Aziraphale took his turn tucking himself into his beloved’s chest. They each wrestled with newly released chaos raging in their breasts. For Crowley, it felt like a scream unstoppered, giddily bursting from his heart and rattling around somewhere between his lungs and his belly. For Aziraphale, it felt like the surge of rage that follows confetti paper cuts and bit inner-cheeks in the middle of transcendent meals. To the both of them, it felt like righteousness. 

“I love you, Crowley.” He wanted to say it, so he did. Certain, but new.

“I love you, Aziraphale.” The reply tumbled down to him.

“I love you, Crowley,” A repetition, an exultation. Aziraphale grinned.

“I love you, Aziraphale.” Crowley breathed his response through a smile.

“I love you, Crowley.” Aziraphale couldn’t stop, and he wondered if he was made to say anything else.

“I love you, Aziraphale.” Crowley’s smile stretched wider into the corners of his cheeks.

“There is nothing better in me than my love for you, Crowley.” Ah, a divergence from the refrain! Aziraphale leaned up to better witness Crowley’s expression. 

“I...” the demon swallowed tremulously. “I would do it all again if it meant ending up here, loving you like this.” 

Aziraphale blinked. Then he swooped down to lay a firm kiss on Crowley’s lips. The world dissolved, and then-- 

“I love you, Crowley.”

“I love you, Aziraphale.”

  
  



End file.
